Imperiled Union
by Elfpen
Summary: The American Civil War is in full swing, and the bloodshed has taken it's toll on Alfred F. Jones, who might just be dying. Arthur Kirkland isn't buying it. Canon compliant. Rated for language. Anachronistic cameo by Lithuania.


**A/N:** We interrupt your normally scheduled programming to bring you a horrifying boomerang from the left field of 2009. I apologize to you, to myself, and to the universe.

1\. I'm an American  
2\. I'm even from the south, so if you're a mad southerner, chill,  
3\. I know I'm glossing over stuff  
4\. I know some of the deets are inaccurate, but I'm exploiting inaccuracies for ~*the drama*~  
5\. I wrote this in two hours so sue me

Warnings for strong language.

* * *

England had no sooner arrived at work than did Victoria instruct him to call the Canadian army to arms. Upon politely asking why, the prime minister had slapped a newspaper on his desk, block letters blaring an alarmed headline over a shoddy illustration of a mail runner.

"Because of those damn yankees," Temple growled.

"Oh God," Arthur picked up the article with trepidation, "What's he done now?"

News of a civil war breaking out in America was not necessarily a surprise. Conflict and America ran hand in hand, and quite frankly, if the little shit wanted to get in and out of scrapes for the rest of his earthly existence, who was England to stop him? He'd played at that game before.

In the end, he doubted Canada had had time to read his call-to-arms before the entire affair melted away. Victoria turned her throne toward India once more, the news became chip paper, and Arthur let the noise of America and this so-called 'confederacy' drift into the ignored background of his awareness. He had far more important things to think about these days.

Namely, Russia. _What a bastard._

* * *

The topic of America and his stupid war didn't come up again until after England had returned from a eight-month long stint in Asia. Upon arriving back in his office, he found a letter waiting for him on his desk. It bore American stamps, America's personal address, America's own personal seal, and handwriting so small, neat, and clear that Alfred F. Jones could have never dreamed of composing it.

Something, England felt in his bones, was wrong.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Lord England Sir,_

_Thank you so much for your inquiry about continued trade through New York and Boston. While scattered conflicts continue in the South, I can assure you that these northern ports remain well safe in Union hands. While cotton and tobacco supplies are limited for the time, Mr. America's holdings in the north remain happy to continue their amicable partnership with…_

It had all blurred together after that. Trading and merchanting was the job of ministers, not him. But the last bit, the bit written to Arthur, and not England, that was his concern.

_...Sorry to say that Mr. America has not been feeling well, and is not able to reply to you himself… I will of course inform him of your letter… wish you all the best._

_From the office of Alfred F. Jones,  
__Signed,  
__Toris Laurinaitis_

Lithuania was friendly with America, that he knew. But he didn't know that Toris had gone to the trouble of becoming his scribe during wartime. Surely Alfred had people for that. Surely.

He arrived at America's home in a considerably bad mood, not least of all because of the eight hours he'd spent tumbling his way across those horrendous caverns that America dared to call roads. He rubbed his backside and trudged to the front door, ready to complain. He hadn't actually set eyes on Alfred in quite a few years, and was miffed that his conscience had dragged him out this far for his sake - what with how they'd last left each other. The least Alfred could do was listen to him gripe about it.

Lithuania answered the door.

"Mr. Lord Britain, sir," he seemed surprised. "You didn't have to come all the way out here, did you not get my-"

"If he's not in a state to write his own letters, then how the hell is he well enough for me to trust him with my merchants? Where is he?"

"Well, he's resting at the moment, as I said, he's not-"

"_Resting, _is it," England pushed past the small state and strode into the house. He'd _built _this house, dammit, he wasn't going to wait out on the porch no matter who owned it now. "Well if he's _resting, _then I'd better go see on the invalid myself," he said, loudly enough for America to hear him, wherever he might've been hiding.

Arthur remembered perfectly well where Alfred's bedroom was - he'd let the kid pick it out when the house was still just timbers - so he went there first. He knew he'd guessed right when Lithuania began chasing after him with protests, so his hesitation at the door was not borne of uncertainty, but brought upon by the sounds of tortured retching emanating from the room beyond.

"_Careful now, sir," _said someone unfamiliar, _"breathe, keep breathing, that's it."_

What?

"I told you, he's not well," Toris insisted, putting a hand on England's arm, trying to pull his vice grip from the doorknob. "Best leave him for now."

"He's actually…" God, that sound. What had happened to him? "He's not just… slacking off?"

"Slacking off, sir?" Toris seemed uncertain.

The retching stopped, but it was replaced by a sound of pure pain, a voice that Britain recognized. Alfred was not a gifted liar, and there was no exaggeration in the sound. Arthur pushed the door open.

America sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but a long nightshirt, bent over a bucket with bloodstains down his front. A nurse, the unfamiliar voice he'd heard before, wiped more blood from his mouth. He was drenched in sweat, and paler than a ghost.

"God in heaven," Britain exclaimed, "what happened to you?"

America looked up at him through bleary eyes. It took a moment. "What, you come here to gloat?" he said, wincing in pain. "Fuck off."

"Alfred," his nurse reprimanded him, but he only slumped into his bucket.

Britain moved closer, ignoring Lithuania's nervous hand-wringing behind him. "What," he repeated, "_happened?"_

"It's the war," Toris spoke up. "He's been getting worse for months. It's been like this for a while, now. There's been so many dead, he just…" it was hard to put into words, even when speaking with other nations who understood.

"How many?" England asked.

Toris was not entirely sure. No one was. "Some say it's up to half a million," he said quietly.

"Half a-" England looked from Lithuania to America, eyes wide in horror. The air between him and his former colony was even more somber than it'd been than the last time they'd seen each other. Alfred looked up at him, but Arthur couldn't find anything to say.

There was nothing to say.

America lurched and vomited more blood.

* * *

Three days later, the doctors let Alfred leave his room to get some fresh air. Arthur accompanied him into the garden.

Alfred was not himself. He was thinner than he should be, and his eyes were dark, and most disconcertingly, he didn't smile.

"Never thought it'd get this bad," America complained to him, voice lacking its reassuringly irritating vim and vigor. "We're supposed to be winning. We were winning… but it just…" Alfred slowed almost to a stop in their stroll and sighed. "God, it's never going to end."

America was not known for his patience, but England withheld his eye roll. "Wars are like that, sometimes," he said. "Francis and I fought for a century once, you know,"

Alfred didn't give him a glance. "Francis isn't these guys," he said. "These guys are supposed to be my guys. They were. They still are. The just want to burn me to the ground."

"Well," Arthur tried to sound optimistic, "now you know how I felt. Serves you right, you prick."

Banter was comfortable. America's failure to reciprocate was less so.

"It's not the same," he said, quietly. _You're not supposed to speak quietly, _England wanted to shout, _you're supposed to make me pull my bloody hair out and remember why I never come to your house anymore. _But he didn't say any of that.

Alfred wore glasses now - Arthur remembered him mentioning them in a letter some decades ago, but Britain had never seen them in person. In the current circumstances, they only made him look like an old, old man.

_You're still wet behind the ears, you domnoddy, _he swallowed more and more unspoken pith as they walked, _you don't have the right to act old yet._

He said as much to Toris after they'd returned to the house and America had drifted back to sleep.

"It's just a civil war," England gave a flippant gesture. "I've lived through far worse. What's his problem?"

"With all due respect, Britain, you are a monarchy."

"_Constitutional _Monarchy," he replied, knee-jerk. "And what's that got to do with it?"

"Well," Toris wrung his hands. He'd done that a lot since Arthur had arrived. "If one of your colonies seceded from you, your monarch just loses some land.

"Yes, alright," it was a sore subject. "What about it?'

"Well, it's different for Mr. America. He's a democracy." What a nerd. "If the Confederacy actually does split off… it calls into question the whole idea of a Union."

Wait. What?

"Even in the North, the states can't agree on everything," Toris sounded like he'd read a newspaper twenty times and had had too many lonely nights to think about the implications. "There've been riots because of the draft, some northerners are even defecting… if the Confederates can split off after all, when the dust settles, everyone else will be wondering if they can do the same."

"What are you saying?" England knew what he was saying, he knew exactly what he was saying, but he didn't think he could say it himself.

"I'm saying that if America loses this war, he won't just lose land, the Union itself could dissolve. He could… you know… die."

England stared at him wordlessly before he blinked once, then twice, and left the room.

* * *

England stayed in America longer than he'd intended to, and ended up becoming America's company whenever the young nation wanted to get some fresh air. They never made it far. Only so far as the house's back garden, to a bench out by the fountains. Then they'd sit. Alfred would say something macabre and dismally out of character about the war, and Arthur would try to respond as optimistically as he could, and the words would never land right. Then, they'd wait while Alfred caught his breath, and England would think about what Toris had said.

The more times he had to sit there and think about it, the angrier and angrier he became.

_He could… you know… die._

Unnerving was not an adequate descriptor. Comprehending a situation in which America would roll over and sleep his way into death like some fainting maiden taken by consumption was unfathomable. America, who'd been strong enough to take on herds of buffalo as an infant. America, who'd sprung up from boy to man at thrice the speed of any person, nation, or weed that England had ever encountered. _America, _who'd thrown his tea into the harbor, spat in his face, and beaten him—yes _him, _the strongest bloody empire the world had ever seen—into the dirt.

And here he was, barfing up blood like some sickly old hag while a bunch of snot-nosed upstarts with a hand-me-down constitution, homespun uniforms, and a few cannon prepared to smite out his very existence.

Maybe Lithuania was right. Maybe America's Civil War _was _more dire than England's had been. But if this war could truly spell the end of him, of the Union, then there was no reason for the doctors, or the bedrest, or the medicines, or any of it. _Surely, _England thought, watching the younger man doze in his eternal fever, _surely I taught him better than that._

Abruptly, England stood from the bench and turned to face America with the frown of an Emperor. Jerked awake from his sleep, America blinked, gaze swimming up to see the angry face glaring down at him.

"Get up," England spat. It took a moment for the words to register.

"What?" America said.

"I said get up, you absolute imbecile."

"Arthur," Alfred was confused and exhausted, "I can hardly sit up straight, I'm not about to-"

"You're dying," Arthur snapped back, "and you're just sitting there and taking it, you inconsiderate brat."

"I'm not dead _yet, _you idiot, I - what're you talking about, inconsiderate?"

"You," England gestured with broad annoyance. "It's downright insulting. If you let these rebels win, you're throwing it right in my face, you know that, right? I'm the strongest empire in Europe, on the_ face of the Earth_, and you beat me not even a hundred years ago. And now, _now, _you're going to let a bunch of slave-owning, rabble-rousing maniacs waltz in and kill you _and _all your men. Look at you. You're going to puke yourself to death, and while you might not care what happens after, I sure as hell am not going to lose any more of my dignity because of your incompetence."

America stared at him, blue eyes wide - wide and angry. _Good. _America's anger usually made him do stupid things, like write declarations, or toss tea in the Atlantic, or leap into fights he was ill-equipped to win.

"You know," Alfred growled, sounding more like himself than he had all week, "not everything is about you, old man."

"From my point of view," England goaded, arms crossed across his chest. "You're a lost cause. All that's left for this 'confederacy' to take is my reputation."

"A _lost cause?" _He was even angrier, now.

"Well you're not fighting,"

"_Lincoln _is fighting," Alfred insisted.

"Abraham Lincoln is not you. And if Toris is to be believed, you've done nothing but sleep, puke, and moan to everyone about it for the last six months, leaving all your men out in the cold. I'm sure Lincoln is doing what he can, but _you're still dying_." He drew out the last few words with merciless accusation. America was young. He'd only fought a few wars. It wasn't his fault that his third was so goddamn bloody, but the budding monster of modern warfare wouldn't change itself for pity.

"So either you're going to roll over and die like a coward, or you're going to stop moaning, get up, and fight like the bull-headed, incorrigible son of a bitch I left here in '83."

Without a word America stood his feet, drew back a right hook, and punched Arthur across the face as hard as he could.

"_Jesus Christ,_" England yelled from ground. "Not _me, _you tit!" He held his face and pounded the ground, entire skull smarting from the blow.

"That felt good," Alfred grouched. He shook out his fist, but his knuckles didn't bear a scratch. He looked down at Britain, whose face was already bright red and swelling. "You want me to fight? I've _been _fighting. I've been fighting without your help for years. I'm not dead yet, limey." Britain wondered if America realized he was standing straighter than before, or if he could hear the strong, righteously angry timbre of his own voice. "Oh, I'll _fight," _he said, "and I'll fight _you_ if you start helping the confederates to make this harder for me, redcoat."

Now that was unexpected. "Why the bloody hell would I help them?" Britain blurted. This boy couldn't be grateful for _anything, _could he? "I just told you-"

"And tell the same to Francis next you see him," America pointed an accusative finger as he stepped over Britain's legs, "I know they were chumming up to him, too."

"Francis has far more important things to deal with right now," Arthur turned to watch him as he stepped over, "I don't think you have to worry about-"

"Good," America declared, "cause I'm too busy to kick all of your asses at once." Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose and, with the legs of a drunken sailor, the fever-glazed eyes of a lunatic, and sufficient anger and arrogance to overcome both, took a step back toward the house, leaving England sitting in the dirt.

"Lithuania!" America shouted, a decision which sent him into a chest-rattling cough. He cleared his throat, spat a wad of blood, and shouted again, "Where's Abe? He and I need to have a chat."

England watched America stalk away, hands clenched into fists, entire posture defiant against his unsteady gait—which honestly demanded a cane at this point.

"_Stupid Britain,"_ he heard the man grumble, _"Inconsiderate, my ass."_

Well, England thought, if a little jackassery here and there kept America from dying, he would be a jackass. An annoyed one, to boot.

"Leaving me in the dirt in his own home, who does he think he is? Honestly," Arthur pushed himself to his feet and brushed himself off. "He's such a child."

But hopefully, Britain prayed, a child who still had enough life ahead of him to one day—one distant, distant day—find it in himself grow up.


End file.
